Are you up for a little laughter? I hope so, because nothing would please the dear man this was written for more, than to give you a chuckle or two. His sense of humor is amazing, which is a good thing to have, if you are married to me! Today, after he chopped down a dead ash tree on our property, and cut it all up with his chainsaw, and dragged it piece by piece to our usual burn pile, and made a nice big heap of brush, I insisted that now was the time to light it— not tonight, not tomorrow, but now! ( between yesterday’s rains and the rain forecast for tonight). I went inside to call the Fire Dispatch and forewarn them ( a bylaw in our township) and when I came out he was still trying to light it— against an ever-increasing wind. Finally it took off! Two minutes later the rain started— not enough to put the fire out, just enough to soak us completely. We stayed out in it, throwing more branches on the fire as long as it continued burning— just to get rid of them, as we will soon have five more trees to remove because of the ash borers. We survived our ordeal, but it took its toll. The problem is that z z z z The problem is z z z z z The problem z z z z z z z z z z The z z z z z z z z z z z z z Hey! Sorry! Here is something I wrote a while ago for Rolly on a much earlier birthday. It is now totally revamped and re-gifted to him today (belatedly—Sorry Sweetie!) and the problem of being too tired to write a new post for today? Solved! z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z
Ode To Roland
On the sixty-fifth anniversary of any great man’s birth
It seems a fitting tribute that his life be put to verse,
That as a way of honouring him on this momentous day
Some bard would try to answer why and how he got that way!
To glean from this man’s history ’til they hit the mother lode
Of his wisdom and experience— thus here begins our ode.
He arrived in the world on the ninth of March in 1948.
Doted upon by siblings, this little potentate
Rode everywhere in a wagon, like a tiny Kublai Khan
Until at the age of eighteen months he got up, and thereupon
Looked down at the feet that heretofore had only the job of growing,
And thought ‟With a whole wide world to see
These feet better get me going!”
He chased after dog and rabbit, and sheep and cow and pig;
Barefoot through the pastures— our hero’s feet grew big!
Until they became a monument to the merits of fertilizer,
Stepped in behind the thoughtful cows by this chilly early riser!
His thirst for new adventures grew as the boy grew lean and leggy,
Wandering over hill and dale with his faithful dog named Peggy.
When he was only four years old he made his first great quest—
River to creek to near Strathroy, leaving his family distressed.
What was this young boy seeking, that the path should so entice?
What should his mother discover, but a pocket full of mice!
While digging in on laundry day to save his earthly treasure
She found a sepulchre of mice— a trauma beyond measure!
Mice were his mortal enemy, so he taught his dog to hunt;
No other creature need feel fear while micedom took the brunt
Of any vile affections of the young Roland the Great;
Bigger battles, bigger conquests, bigger foes must wait.
Roland at an early age joined the ranks of lady-killers,
Sweeping his teacher off her feet with a bag of caterpillars,
Which he opened up in the classroom, while all were in the yard!
Getting the girls to scream and swoon with this feat wasn’t hard!
Here was a boy of nature, a boy with one real goal—
To surround himself with the things he loved to the depth of his very soul.
One night he sneaked a chick to his room and took the chick to bed—
But when he rolled over in his sleep the poor little chick was dead!
The following day with tearful eyes, and a heart full of contrition,
He listened to the wisdom in his mother’s admonition—
“The only thing with feathers you should ever have in your bed
Is the fluffy feather pillow where you rest your little head!”
Another time he took a pig and put it into a box
In his room upstairs where unawares it bruised its little hocks
As it flung itself with a squeal of delight from its box onto the floor!
But its plan of escape from Roland’s room was thwarted by the door,
And so it sought another way out— another porcine route—
Into the furnace duct vent it leapt, with Roland in pursuit,
(Choosing to take the stairs of course, because of size disparity)
Leaving the pig to cope somehow, with its perpendicularity!
Roland’s mum found the pig at last (because of all the screaming).
Then the little guy in his birthday suit could go back to his dreaming….
Dreaming of his future plans as a Northern forest ranger…
Saving all the animals, whenever there was danger…
Or maybe he could be the best in the W.W.F….
Or wrestle guys at S.D.C.I. ’til no bigger guys were left!
Roland just loved the water, and fishing by the hour—
Sitting beneath a shady bridge, as if it were some bower
Where he might meet his lady fair, and sweep her off her feet,
And if that lady liked to fish, his joy would be complete!
So in 1967 on the twenty-fourth day of May
His best friend asked his lady fair if, when he came that day,
Could Roland meet her sister and (even better yet!)
Could the four of them go fishing? Oh what a sweet vignette!
The sister she was hesitant, but finally did agree;
They went to a place called The Wishing Well and sat beneath a tree.
And that’s where valiant Roland, namesake of Roland the Great,
Lost the battle for his heart on his very first blind date.
No hundred thousand Saracens surrounded him that day,
Just a girl with a name as French as his, who was not afraid to say
How little she liked fishing — they didn’t fish that day!
He wooed her and he courted her with chivalry and pride;
No rain or snow or sleet or hail would keep him from her side!
One night while in her driveway he got down on bended knee—
His car door lock was frozen tight; it wouldn’t take the key.
But she and all her family had promptly gone to bed;
“He’s gone at last! Let’s get some sleep!” her watchful father said.
What a dire circumstance happened to transpire!
He blew into the car door lock but now his lips, afire,
Were stuck as tight as super glue onto the freezing metal!
Burning like two sausages, sizzling on a griddle!
To prove his strength, to prove his grit, to prove his desperation!
To earn himself the title that would crown the situation!
Noble “Hot Lips Rollason” rose bravely to his feet,
Sentenced now to kisslessness when next he met his sweet.
In the year 1969 he took her for his wife,
And since that day they’ve laughed a lot; there hasn’t been much strife;
He has raised two happy children, a daughter and a son;
He has lived a lot in sixy-five years; he has made life lots of fun;
And so we pause to honour him, a man who is truly great—
Born to make the rest of us laugh; there’s not a nobler fate!